


California Dreamin'

by lady_metroland3



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: AU, F/M, Older Man/Younger Woman
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-10
Updated: 2017-07-26
Packaged: 2018-09-23 05:53:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,424
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9643421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady_metroland3/pseuds/lady_metroland3
Summary: Sansa Stark takes a job out West, with no idea about her destination, what her tasks will be, or who she will meet upon arrival.AU, 1960sRated for later chapters.





	1. All the Leaves Are Brown

* * *

 

     

     “Only for a couple of weeks,” her mother had said, “Let things quiet down.”

  
    Sansa looked out over the green expanse of fields, secured by borders of black and brown roads. It was her first time in an airplane, and she thought about how thrilled her younger self would have been, the little girl who always pretended to be some kind of bird. Now she had finished her book sooner than expected, and could only think about what was waiting for her beyond the tarmac and what she was leaving behind. She had seen photographs of California in magazines, all hills with odd, cube-like houses perched precariously upon them. To some they looked glamorous, but to Sansa they sometimes looked as though they were poised to fall off those hills and into the ravines below. Moving out West, it seemed, required one not to be afraid of heights.

     Back home, the season was just starting. Her friends were shedding their fisherman sweaters and wool trousers in favor of colorful sun dresses, kicking off their duck boots for lighter toned shoes in soft leather. New England summers were brief, and in Maine those few weeks before the tourist invasion were always just enough for the first freezing but gratifying taste of the ocean. That, and grocery shopping became a battle any time past the middle of June. Would Sansa have to navigate some foreign supermarket with her new summer job? She had only ever shopped at their local market, and felt silly at being nervous over where to find apples.

     It was not the being away from home for so long that troubled Sansa; a good third of the summers were usually spent at summer camp with friends, and now that she had graduated that activity was left to her younger siblings. With a twinge she remembered how she would miss canoeing and the color wars, as well as Arya no doubt winning the fencing and archery challenges again this summer, no time for scribbling off post cards to her older sister. She could still write to friends, but with the Tyrells gone to Europe for the season Sansa doubted that any of her letters would reach Margyrey in an acceptable time, and she was not the best at replying, anyway. And what would they talk about now, after all that had happened? The two had met the night before Sansa left, and without school troubles to complain about, their silences hung in the air, tainted by those unpleasant events. They were behind her now, but edged from the corners into her conscious thoughts if she did not try to keep them back.  
     

     Instead Sansa looked out the window, the clouds thickening over the Midwest as the plane raised higher, every now and then a voice would crackle on and inform the passengers of this altitude. She had felt such an elation while taking off, now the rising was almost imperceptible. Sansa wondered about her summer job ahead of her. The past year had been too hectic to apply to any colleges, let alone to attempt the applications of the more demanding Sister Schools whose alumnae graced her mother’s social circles. It was Mrs. Stark who had decided that Sansa needed a change of scenery. Her sister, recently widowed, had taken a position as a secretary out West, and Mrs. Stark arranged for Sansa to go and stay with her as an assistant of sorts. Sansa had never done clerical work, and had only served as a camp counselor for a summer job before, but her mother did not appreciate an argument. To California she would go.

...

     

     "Miss?" There was a shuffle of movement, and Sansa stirred beneath the gloved hand of the flight attendant who gently shook her shoulder, "Excuse me, miss, but we've landed and you're the last passenger on board..." 

     Sansa sat upright at the information, narrowly missing the edge of her window. The plane was indeed empty, and during her nap Sansa had kicked off her shoes. Thank goodness there were no holes in the toes of her new stockings. She apologized and felt her hairdo, mussed from how she had been leaning against the seat with a pin sticking out. She stood and slipped her arms through her jacket, which had been draped around her shoulders for the flight, feeling ever the child as the sophisticated flight attendant smiled kindly and left her to collect herself. Hastily putting her shoes on and taking her purse, Sansa took and breath and walked towards the door, thanking the attendants who welcomed her to sunny California. 

     Sansa was glad to have gripped the railing as she descended the staircase, for the sun was immediately blinding. Heat rose off the tarmac in lurid waves, and Sansa would have felt like Anita Ekberg if she could have seen anything but the black landing strip and the sun, and her heels did not clang so loudly against the plane's metal steps. Finally finding the ground, she squinted into her purse and dug past the mirror, lipstick, and tissues her mother had put in it, finally digging out a pair of horn-rimmed sunglasses that Rob had left behind in favor of his father's old aviators. Why he would need them in New York City, Sansa did not know, but no one had questioned his right to them. She immediately felt the temperature in the tweed of her new traveling suit and cotton shirt, not to mention the new stockings and restraining undergarments Mrs. Stark had insisted that she wear with it. Looking out over the tarmac, then back on the plane, Sansa realized that she had no idea where to go or where her suitcase was. The airport itself was foggy in the distance, and Sansa was not even sure she would be able to get in. It had been hours since lunch, even though she knew there was a time difference. Was it five or six hours behind? She could never keep those things straight. She searched through her purse again, finding a cotton handkerchief embroidered with her initials, as she had broken out into a sweat under the silly hat that her mother had also bought for the trip. Sansa never liked hats, afraid that they made her head look large, and now she was even less enthusiastic as the dumb thing did nothing to shield her from the sun. It grew more oppressive by the second, and Sansa was becoming nervous until a she heard a small engine off to the right. A golf cart was puttering into view, at a speed that did not seem normal. The cart squeaked to a halt on the black rubber, and two long, jean-clad legs swung out of it, followed by a shaggy head of brown hair and bright, reflecting sunglasses. 

     "Sansa?" said the man, and she walked towards him. 

     "Jon?" she replied, almost as incredulous. 

     Her brother climbed out of the car and strode towards her, lifting her from the ground in a tight embrace. Sansa gasped at the hug but smiled, "I didn't recognize you, so much hair!" 

     "And what about you?" Jon set her down and they walked toward the golf cart, "The last time I saw you, you had scrapes on your knees from climbing a tree with Arya! For a moment I thought I was picking up Audrey Hepburn."

     "Yeah, right," Sansa scoffed, pleased nonetheless, "Oh, you have my bags!"

     Jon patted the teal luggage set, one rectangular and one circular, also initialed, "Are you moving out here for good? I thought it was only going to be a few weeks?"

     "It's only three pieces!" Sansa said as they drove back to the airport, "Besides, I don't know how long it will be exactly. Mother didn't give me a return ticket."

     "So you're in exile, like me?" Jon said this with a smile, but Sansa demurred. It was true; when he left home a few years ago, his hair was just as closely cropped as Rob's, though his preference for motorcycles and leather jackets had become too much for Mrs. Stark, especially when auto parts and cigarette butts began to litter the garage and driveway. He was part of the family, of course. However, with no career or university prospects to speak of, they all agreed it would be best if Jon also moved out to work with their Aunt. 

     "Do you like gardening at the house?" Sansa asked, looking away from his tattered jeans and faded tartan shirt that she only just recognized from his high school days. 

     "Yeah, actually," Jon pulled up to the glass doors of the airport entrance, "It's a good gig, but I don't live in the house."

     They left the cart and Jon took two of Sansa's larger suitcases, she picked up the train case and clicked after him in her heels. Somehow he held the door open for her, and she walked past him, asking about the house.

     "Uh, it's big," Jon said, furrowing his brow, "Bigger than our house even. And new. You're not afraid of heights, are you?"

     "Oh no, is it one of those white houses on the hill that looks like it's about to fall down?" Sansa wiped her brow again, despite the strong air conditioning of the reflective, spotless airport. Coming in from the sun, she found it even more difficult to see as her eyes adjusted.

     "Afraid so- whoops!" He dove to catch Sansa as her ankle rolled in the heel, "You all right?"

     "I'm fine!" Sansa chirped, flustered but unharmed, "What's Aunt Lysa like? We've only spoken on the telephone once."

     She was not sure if Jon laughed or coughed in response, and he opened another set of doors. Sansa walked out, blinking as though willing her vision to get a grip on itself, and she stood for a moment, taking in her first set of palm trees. Both stood so tall against the bright blue sky, it looked like a photograph. All around her people seemed at home in the heat, looking as though summer had come early, and very glamorous in their bright colors and shiny sunglasses. It was still in the mid-sixties when she left home, Sansa wished she had known that even a walking tweed would be too heavy. She turned and Jon was still walking on towards a pale blue pickup truck, and she skittered after him. He dropped her suitcases into the back bed and strapped them down, and they both climbed in. It was higher than Sansa was used to for a car, and she had to try twice to hop in. 

     "It's like mounting a horse!" She laughed, a little flushed. 

     "Please tell me you brought more casual clothes than that," Jon said with a slight smile as he started the ignition. 

     Sansa was already a bit damp, and she took off her jacket in response, "No, it's two suitcases full of suits," she gestured to the makeup box on her lap, "And more shoes."

     Jon smiled and even chuckled in a low tone as they pulled away from the airport driveway. Sansa could not remember the last time she heard him laugh, or even saw him smile. Despite the lack of haircut and beard that had grown in, it seemed that this hot climate suited Jon. He had even developed a good tan. Sansa could already feel the warmth of a burn on her skin, and she realized she had forgotten her suntan lotion. In fact, all the people she had seen here were a few shades darker from the sun, they must sell sunscreen in California? They drove on through the highway for what seemed like half an hour, with each palm tree catching Sansa's fascination. She did not think that they would be so high! As the pickup began to pass rows of small, pastel-colored houses, Sansa remembered her destination. 

     "So, Aunt Lysa?" she asked, looking forward at the road. 

     "She's, well..." Jon sealed his lips as he searched for the right words, "You can tell that she's your mother's sister."

      _Your mother_. Sansa was reminded of the fight a few days before Jon left, and how up until his own departure would refer to Mrs. Stark like that. 

     "Oh?" she replied, trying not to sound nervous or disapproving. 

     "Well, you'll know where you stand with her right away," Jon continued, and the houses around them turned into shops and suddenly they were downtown, "I knew immediately that I was little more than hired help, but she's fair enough. Besides, she's not my boss, she just tells me what needs to be done."

     "What do you mean?" Sansa asked after a moment, having been distracted by the shop windows and then by a woman in a beautiful sundress who was walking down the sidewalk, "I thought you worked for her?"

     "Not really, it's not her house," he said, "It belongs to Mr. Baelish, but he's gone most of the time. She just lives there, probably so he won't have to hire a caretaker." 

     Sansa recognized the name, suddenly remembering that her mother had mentioned it once months ago, when the ideas for her summer job were just being formed. Sansa had been too upset to process the information, and at the time just nodded to her mother's instructions. Then again, it had been the only time she heard Mrs. Stark say the real employer's name, otherwise she would have remembered it. 

     "Well, what's Mr. Baelish like?" she asked after a moment, not wanting to ask too many questions about her aunt. 

     "He's... all right, I guess," Jon turned onto a steep hill, but seemed unbothered by it while Sansa was apprehensive, "I've only talked with him a few times. He's usually in New York, you know, working for the Lannisters. Accounting, I think? But he has another business here, something with the movie studios."

     Sansa's ears perked up from the precarious incline when she heard this, and was about to ask what he did with movies when they pulled up to a large gate, attached to a high wall. It reminded her of the Tyrell's gate which was, especially for their seaside town, seen as incredibly garish. There were others lining the street, all cast iron and clay brick. This was the least decorated, and after a minute or so Jon groaned and turned off the ignition, climbed out of the truck and approached the gate. 

     He rapped a knuckle against the metal, looking at someone in a shaded box inside the yard. When that failed, he barked, "Sam!"

     There was a rumble of movement and the sound of startled limbs hitting plywood, then a heavy man with a nonetheless boyish face poked his head out from the shade, "Oh, sorry Jon!" He shuffled as fast as he could out of the box, holding his hat on, and then started to unlock the gate, saying "Heavy breakfast, and this heat, you know." Jon turned back towards the car with a resigned look on his face and drove through once the gates were open. Beyond the walls, Sansa had not see so much green since they arrived. The lawn and the shrubs around the house were immaculately manicured, but in simple geometric shapes that complimented the odd architecture of the house. It was as Sansa had imagined; a cube on top of a cube held up by stilts, most of it looking to be made of windows. Sansa remembered some phrase from chapel at school about casting stones. Jon drove down a slight hill in the back of the house and parked under an extended porch. They both left the car and Sansa was grateful for the shade, seeing the sun glaring in contrast on the concrete driveway. 

     "It looks beautiful, Jon," she said, looking at the surrounding greenery. 

     "Thanks," he was bashful, "For a second I thought you meant the house."

     Sansa laughed and shook her head, following her brother up a spiral staircase and into the house. The entryway, or was it the living room, was flooded with sunlight but considerably less stifling than outside. The furniture matched the house, all sleek, carved teak and sparse. There did not seem to be many rooms, just a few dividing walls that left the floor open. Sansa had only seen houses like this in her magazines. She turned and she nearly dropped her train case, then opened the sliding glass doors that led out onto the porch. The view looked like every postcard from California she had ever seen, palm trees dotting the hilly landscape that descended into the downtown area, then past the roads onto a stretch of sandy beach. At that moment, Sansa remembered that she had forgotten her bathing suit at home. She was delighted nonetheless

     "Can we go to beach today?" she turned to ask Jon, who had left her suitcases inside and joined her on the porch.  

     "We could, that's where mine and Sam's house is," He smiled, apparently knowing she would be excited, " _Or_ you could check out the swimming pool on the roof."

     "There's a pool on the roof?" Sansa balked, then suddenly became aware of the figure that emerged from the house behind them.

 

* * *

 


	2. And the Sky is Grey

     “Oh, you’ve arrived,” said a voice that was so like her mother’s that Sansa started and turned. The woman that stood in front of the open sliding glass door was not as tall as Mrs. Stark, and she spoke again, “Hello, Sansa. Goodness, you’re tall.”

     Sansa then noticed the auburn hair, so like hers but no doubt touched up at the beauty salon, piled high in a perfect ‘do upon her small head. The sunlight glared off of her thick, white-framed circular sunglasses that covered the majority of her face, the rest she shielded with a gloved hand. Her slim, cream dress and jacket did nothing to hide how petite she was, and her blocky patent heels that matched her sunglasses shone with a pristine surface. She appeared impeccably chic but stood rather stiff, giving the appearance that her off-the-rack ensemble would have been better left on the mannequin. 

     “Hello, Aunt Lysa,” Sansa replied, not sure if the observation about her height was a compliment or a regret. She had not seen her aunt in over a decade, and Mrs. Stark often commented with some reserve on her sister’s abrupt way of speaking. Sansa already felt the burn of the sun on her neck.

     The two women walked towards each other with measured steps, embracing in the middle of the deck, two pairs of gloved hands on clothed backs. Sansa noticed that she, and Mrs. Stark, were both at least five inches taller than Lysa. They bent forward for a moment, brushing cheeks, then Lysa withdrew and looked up at her niece with the same tight smile. Sansa saw herself reflected in the sunglasses and almost felt inspected when Lysa said, “You take much more after your father’s side, except the hair of course.” She stared for one more moment, then her smile disappeared and she snapped at Jon, “I told you to let me know when she arrived.”

     Sansa tried to not widen her eyes at her aunt’s sharp change of tone and looked at Jon, who leaned against the deck’s bannister. 

     “We just did,” he replied, unfazed, “I wanted to show her the view.”

     “Right,” said Lysa, the smile returning with an intake of breath, “Well, let’s show you to your room. You’ll get the luggage?”

     This question ha d the air of a command and was directed at Jon, to whom Sansa gave an apologetic look when Lysa turned around and began to stride into the house. Jon shook his head and gestured with his hand, as if to tell her it was no bother. Sansa hurried after her aunt, who had already advanced in to the parlor, though she would not have called it that. They stopped on a rug with a geometric pattern, quite like something Sansa had seen in a local natural history museum back home, and Lysa raised one hand to say, “This is the main room!”

     She paused, as though to let Sansa absorb her statement, and Sansa stifled the remark that the whole half of the house seemed like the main room without walls. 

     “Kitchen is through that door,” Lysa pointed to a pair of portico doors on one dividing wall behind them, then to the angular leather sofa and chairs beside them, “And Mr. Baelish entertains here when he’s in town.” 

     Lysa turned and walked toward a hallway opposite from the stairway from which Jon and Sansa had entered, heels clicking, and asked, “Has your mother explained the position to you?” She opened a door on the left, across from the kitchen wall, “Bathroom.” She closed the door and continued down the hall, Sansa tried to keep her small pocketbook in the crook of her arm so that it did not scuff the light grey walls. 

     “No,” Sansa answered, “Nothing at all, really.”

    “Just like Kitty!” her aunt quipped after a brisk sigh, “You will be trusted with the care and keeping of the household now that I’m to accompanying Mr. Baelish on his travels.”

     Sansa tried to hide the disappointment in her voice, “You mean I’m a cleaning lady?”

     Lysa stopped and craned her head to look at her niece, finally removing her sunglasses with a slightly trembling hand.

     “Goodness no, girl,” Sansa could not tell if she laughed or scoffed, “We have people for that!” She turned down the hall, which ended with another spiral staircase and a closed door on the far wall. Lysa stepped over to the door and opened it wide, “This is your room.”

     Sansa approached and walked inside. It was not a large space, with a single bed, a desk and a lamp, and a set of drawers made of the same teak as all the other furniture Sansa had seen in the house. Above the dresser was a small window, and a full length mirror hung on the wall beside it. The size was of no consequence, however, as Sansa stared out at the huge leaves that shimmered in the diffused light outside the large picture window. The deep shades of green were like a wallpaper that seemed to compose the room’s outer wall.

     “It isn’t south-facing,” Lysa said, “So we’ve provided you with an alarm clock.”

     Sansa turned to look at the small, shiny clock sitting alone on the beside table she had not noticed upon entering the room. Again her attention returned to the window and she smiled broadly at the exotic foliage. She had been afraid that there would be nothing but palm trees in California but the opaqueness of the thick leaves was comforting, almost like being in the woods that surrounded her home. 

     “Excuse me,” came Jon’s voice from the doorway, and Lysa all but flattened herself against the open door to let him and the luggage pass, as though either could seriously dirty her dress. 

     “Mr. Baelish was worried that you might not be happy with the maid’s room,” he said to Sansa while setting down the suitcases, “but I told him it’d suit you just fine.”

     Sansa thought of the room she shared with Arya that had become more and more cramped in recent years. Jon’s had been promptly turned into a guest bedroom when he left, and of course Robb’s _needed_ to be kept as it was when he went to college, for weekends and vacations, and then family visits once he graduated. Sansa beamed and Jon returned her grin, he knew she had never had her own space before. 

     “Well, we had to keep the guest suite open,” Lysa said, managing to sound appeasing but exasperated at once. 

     “No, no,” Sansa replied, placing her pocketbook and hat on the dresser, “It’s perfect.” 

     “Well!” Lysa inhaled and gestured with her arms to indicate the rest of the house tour.

     Jon raised his eyebrows at Sansa before walking out of the room, purposely closer to Lysa than necessary, and she all but jumped out of his way and leaned against the door again to avoid him. Sansa followed and her aunt shut the bedroom door behind her. Jon continued down the hall to the main parlor and Lysa started up the spiral staircase, saying, “This is the private area of the house, you mustn’t allow _anyone_ to come up here while Mr. Baelish and I are away.” 

     Sansa understood that by “anyone,” her aunt had meant Jon. They reached the top of the staircase at the end of a hallway that was painted a slightly darker grey than downstairs. Lysa removed a small set of a silver keys from a necklace hidden in her dress, unlocking the door of a room that must have been right over hers, “This is Mr. Baelish’s office.”

     Besides the view of the tops of leaves outside the window, Sansa glimpsed a room that looked as though it could have been transplanted from the East Coast. The walls were lined with serious-looking legal books, and the room was anchored by a handsome antique desk. Behind it sat an aged, leather Chesterfield chair, similar to those in her father’s smoking room. The oriental rug on the wood floor pulled the office together with a warmness that was altogether foreign from the tropical plants outside. Sansa thought she caught a whiff of balsam, but concluded that she must have imagined it. Instead of immediately closing the door, Lysa walked in and motioned to an empty wire basket on the desk next to the clean but well-worn green desk set.

     “Personal letters go here,” Lysa said, then pointed to a wooden file cabinet in the corner that Sansa had not noticed at first glance, “And I’ve written you a list of which business letters go in which file.”

     Lysa took a sheet of fine stationery from the top of the file cabinet and handed it to Sansa, who noticed her aunt’s even, straight lettering, then they both left the office. Before Sansa could read any of the names, Lysa held out the keyring. 

     “You’re to keep these on your person at all times,” she handed them to Sansa, “one for the office, and once for the main entrance. And burn that list once you’ve memorized it. And Sansa…” 

     Sansa had been examining the keys, the ring of which bearing what seemed to be a sterling silver bird, wondering if all house sitters had this kind of responsibility and instinctively straightened up when she saw the expression in her aunt’s dark blue eyes. They were identical to her mother’s, and looked at Sansa like when she was a small child and had done something wrong. Lysa continued, now that she had her niece’s full attention, “You’re not to open any of the letters, just follow the list and file the envelopes, understood?”

     Unsure of how to react to her aunt’s suddenly steely tone, Sansa weakly responded, “Yes, Aunt Lysa.”

     Lysa looked down at the doorknob and raised her eyebrows, waiting. Sansa paused, then took the key and began working at the lock, which she was relieved to have clicked shut on the first try. Lysa was satisfied and Sansa slipped the keys around her neck as they moved to the next door, across the hall. It was not locked, but slightly open.

     “This is the guest bedroom and bathroom,” she said, presenting Sansa with an immaculate, dark teal room with a more elevated view than that of the deck below. Here she noticed that the windows were sliding doors like downstairs, and led to a balcony that seemed connected to another which must be outside the next room. The azure curtains matched the bedspread, on which Lysa’s patent leather purse that she must have bought with her shoes stood out in a bright flash of white. She plucked it up and placed a small planner that she had retrieved from the room’s desk drawer inside. Lysa took a wide-brimmed hat from the seat of a chair behind the desk, and took a moment in the bathroom to the right of the large bed to adjust it over her coiffure. Sansa had remained at the doorway this time, and closed the door behind her aunt who said, “We have the help clean in her whenever Mr. Baelish has guests.” 

    Sansa repressed the remark that cleaning did not seem necessary, when she noticed another door down the hall which her aunt had ignored. 

     “And that room?” she asked. Lysa, who had already begun to walk back down the stairs, replied, again almost exasperated, “It’s Mr. Baelish’s room, of course!” 

     Hurrying after her aunt, they stopped at the bottom of the stairs and Lysa added, “The help does _not_ need to go in there.”

     Again, Sansa discerned that _she_ was included with “the help.”

     They walked briskly into the entertaining area and descended through the main entrance, where Jon met them, standing next to a waiting taxi. He opened the door for Lysa and held out his hand, she took it with an inaudible scoff a then climbed into the cab.

     “Good luck, Sansa!” she said with a bright smile, and Jon shut the door behind her. The taxi wheeled around and exited the main gate, and Sansa had the feeling that Sam the gatekeeper was happy to have something to do in his small wooden box. 

     Sansa lowered her waving hand that she had raised instinctually at her aunt’s farewell, and Jon rejoined her. 

     “So that’s Aunt Lysa,” she said to Jon, who nodded as they watched the cab disappear behind the garden walls. 

     “What did you say to her?” Sansa asked. 

     “She forgot her earrings by the pool,” Jon answered, turning back up the house steps.

     “I’m surprised there’s no house driver…” Sansa mused, half serious. 

     “When Mr. Baelish is here, there is,” said Jon as they returned to the parlor, “No one has dared to make any attempts on Lysa… yet.”

     He smiled at Sansa’s apparent look of concern, which softened when she saw her half-brother’s expression, “Is she always like that?” 

     “No, usually she’s worse,” he flipped his hair and looked out the window onto the deck, “I suppose she wanted to make a decent impression, considering you’re actually _from_ the family.” 

     Sansa pursed her lips and looked down, trying to think of another topic of conversation, when Jon suggested that they go take a look at the pool. 

     “I’ve already cleaned it today, but it will be your job soon,” he said, almost mockingly, “Get your suit on, stairs are on the deck.”

…

     Sansa had taken a short dip after her tutorial, but instead of going out with Jon and Sam as he had suggested, she retreated to her small room for a nap that lasted until early evening. When she awoke, the waning sunlight shone on the leaves and bathed the pale room in an emerald light, and Sansa recalled seeing _The Wizard of Oz_ in the theater many summers earlier. Her stomach groaned, she had slept through lunch. When she padded silently out into the darkened house, hair tousled from sleep and chlorine, Sansa found the cavernous glass building empty. Her half-brother and Sam must have already left, but thanks to a note in Jon’s quick handwriting that she found on the kitchen counter, Sansa made a sandwich with the intent of eating it on the deck. As her room had taken on a greenish hue, the marble countertops began to glow purple, and for the first time Sansa looked out over the palm trees to see the sun setting majestically in the West.


	3. I've Been for a Walk

     For the first week, Sansa worked. Aunt Lysa had left a daily to-do list on her desk, and she fussed over every small task, every bit of tidying that was to be done in the immaculate glass house. Her morning began at seven with the violent clang of the shiny brass alarm clock on her bedside table. Wearing skirts and sweater sets that she had brought from home, fresh from Bonwit Teller where her mother had brought her for “a more mature wardrobe,” Sansa darted around with the nervous energy of any person in a new and foreign place. Jon would join her for breakfast from his bungalow on the grounds, which she learned was tucked just beyond the large-leafed trees of her bedroom. On the first morning, he had given her outfit a once over glance, and sat down with a smile. 

     “What…?” she asked cautiously, placing a cup of coffee in front of him on the breakfast bar. 

     “Nothing,” he responded with the same suppressed grin, just as Sansa nearly slipped off the stool she had been trying to hop onto with her pencil skirt and heels, “It’s just that if the president arrives, you’re good and ready.”

     Sansa pouted her lips, ready to retort, then with another attempt she landed right on the stool’s cushion and clutched her pearls, narrowed her eyes and said, “Well, wouldn’t _thaht_ be just _fihne!_ ”

    Jon snorted into his coffee, then guffawed as he said to his sister, “Oh gods, that’s terrifying,” he mopped up the spilt drops on the countertop with a nearby napkin, “I feel like I’m back in Hyannisport with CC Lannister, ugh.”

     They both laughed for a moment, then their expressions softened, and both settled down into a rueful silence. 

     “Good morning!” 

     Jon and Sansa turned to the source of the cheery response, and Sam was walking up the main entrance with a pastry box under his arm. 

     “Nice to see you again, Miss Stark!” he beamed, his kind face red from the exertion of climbing the spiral staircase.

     “Sansa’s fine,” she replied, grateful for the interruption, “Good morning, Sam.”

     “Now I know I’m supposed to be down there, but I had extra bacon this morning,” Sam said to Jon, setting the pastry box down on the counter, “So I won’t be finishing this, and it’s awfully hot.”

     Sansa noted a Midwestern accent in Sam’s voice, only because it was like that of a girl’s in her class who had moved from Wisconsin in grammar school, and then he said to her, “You won’t be need that cover-up outside, Mi-, uh, Sansa.”

     “I’ll change when I clean the pool, then.” Sansa looked at the pretty pink box, which was so much more appealing than her orange and fried egg.

     “Oh please,” Sam opened the box for her, revealing an assortment of pastries, “Take whichever you like.”

     “Thank you!” Sansa retrieved a croissant and placed it on her plate, “Can’t make this a habit, I won’t fit into my swimsuit.”

     “But seriously,” Jon said, “You didn’t just bring clothes like that, right?”

     Sansa dipped the croissant into her egg yolk, “I want to look presentable if Mr. Baelish arrives,” she took a bite and chewed thoughtfully, then widened her eyes, “Can you imagine what Aunt Lysa would say if he showed up and I wasn’t dressed?”

     “She’d probably push you off the porch,” Jon conceded, taking a chocolate bun from the box.

     “Mr. Baelish is hardly ever here, though,” Sam said as he labored onto the stool and  Sansa poured him some coffee from a mug in the kitchen cabinet, “But it’s true that he has just shown up out of the blue before. Oh, I should probably get back down there.”

     As though he had just reminded himself of his duties, Sam took his coffee and one more pastry as he bustled back down the stairs to his post. Sansa would see him there when she picked up the mail at the front gate, later in the afternoon, fast asleep in the stuffy gatekeeper’s box with his cap slipping over his eyes. Sansa carefully picked up the empty mug from his small desk and tiptoed back to the house. He had been right; even as she climbed the stairs to the second floor, Sansa felt damp in her constrictive outfits. The girdle Mrs. Stark had insisted upon at the lingerie counter of the department store added an extra layer.

     “Every woman needs a bit of shaping,” she had said as the salesgirl, only a few years older than Sansa, nodded in agreement, “Even the most athletic.”

    Sansa looked around to make sure no one was looking in the windows of the private home, then adjusted her garter belt where the stockings had bunched up. She patted her high hairstyle, then went upstairs to the office where she sorted the mail to her aunt’s instructions. Bills went on the table in a basket, all other letters went in their separate folders in the file cabinet. Sansa had not yet memorized that list, but was coming close to it. It was comforting to be in that room, even for a few moments, as it was so like being at home. Every now and again she smelled familiar balsam, but could never find the source. There was a telephone on the desk, but she had no idea how much it would cost to call home and would be mortified to run up a bill. When her task was finished, she locked the door behind her and returned to the dark and quiet hallway. 

     Despite her earlier protests, Sansa looked would have been happy to sweep or clean by the end of the week, when she found that in a pet-free, child-free, and plant-free home, there was hardly anything to be done. The Stark house had been full of domestic animals of every kind, children, and plants, so the constancy of such cleanliness almost put her ill at ease. Even her bedspread seemed incomplete without the cover of fur from her sister’s mangy cat, Fang. She and her siblings each had their own chores and with the distribution of labor, Mrs. Stark would laugh that she had no need of a housekeeper. The family home was always in order by the time Mr. Stark returned home from his long hours at the hospital, and he never heard about the spankings it sometimes took to keep it that way. 

     On the note that Lysa left she wrote that a cleaning lady came once a week on Fridays, but did not elaborate on what Sansa was supposed to do during that time. 

     “Oh, Osha,” Jon was trimming the hedges that bordered the stilts which supported the porch when Sansa asked him about it, “She comes on Fridays, eight a.m., sharp. Do yourself a favor, just stay out of her way.”

     At the end of her first week, Sansa heard a knock on the door when she was washing her dishes from breakfast. She clicked her heels across the hard wood floor, still wearing rubber gloves she found under the sink and an old shirt of Jon’s she had fashioned into an apron. Just as she reached for the doorknob, it turned and the door opened to reveal a woman, older than Sansa, but at least a foot shorter. She was draped in what looked like poorly dyed brown clothing, her scrub-brush black mop of hair wrapped in a maroon scarf. Her deeply tanned skin was weathered, and her eyes were ringed with kohl. She walked in on her battered leather sandals and put her hands on her hips, smelling of incense that Sansa had only experienced when she had attended  Margaery’s family’s Catholic service one Sunday morning after a sleepover. 

     Sansa stepped back and the woman dropped her backpack of cleaning supplies onto the floor. Sansa had never seen a real hippie before. She stood with her hands on her hips, looking Sansa up and down, then scanned the open area with her sharp grey eyes.

     “Baelish not here?” she asked, not looking back at Sansa.

     “No, I…” Sansa was unsure what to say, “I don’t know when he’ll next be in.”

     Sansa had spoken far more primly than intended, and the cleaning lady scoffed and Sansa, “Well, I’ll still always knock… even the _master’s_ away.”

        Her eyes jerked back to Sansa, and she held her breath.

     “Well scram, missy,” Osha jerked her head to open door behind her, “I got work to do.”

     Sansa nodded, “Yes ma’am, I’ll just get my things.”

     She removed the rubber gloves and placed them on the counter while Osha began to unpack her bag, muttering about prissy chicks who think they know something. Sansa went to her room and draped Jon’s shirt over her desk, taking the letters she finally wrote the previous night and her purse. She scanned the room for any valuables left in the open, then rolled her eyes as she remembered the conversations about thieving maids she had overheard between her mother and CC Lannister. Sansa closed the door behind her, not sure if it should be locked, and realizing that there was no lock on the door even if she had wanted to secure it. 

     Osha was already vacuuming with the small, portable device she had brought with her, spirited out of the voluminous sack she carried. Osha reminded Sansa of a nasty version of Mary Poppins. Sansa walked out into the heat that she was somehow able to avoid in the transparent building, quickly fetching her sunglasses and gloves from her pocketbook. Jon was nowhere to be seen, Sansa determined that he had seen the cleaning lady coming and decided to take his own advice. Sam was at his post, and he started when Sansa knocked on the outside of his shelter. 

     “Oh hi, Sansa,” he said, regaining his composure, “I guess you’ve met Osha.”

     “Is she always like that?” Sansa said, a bit ruffled. She had always been taught that manners cost nothing.

     “Yeah, but don’t take it personally,” he shifted around to face her, “They’re not all like what they say on the television, most hippies are pretty all right, but I have to say she’s the most unpleasant flower child I’ve ever met.”

     This last comment he almost whispered, even as the droning hum of the vacuum buzzed down from the house. 

     “Well, do you mind telling me where I can do some grocery shopping?” Sansa lifted the list, “I know I saw a place downtown on the drive up…”

     “Yeah, there’s an Alpha Beta just down the hill,” he frowned, “But you just missed Jon. He drove in for some dirt.”

     Sansa tried not to laugh at this simple statement, “That’s fine, I could use a walk anyway.” 

     “Be careful, sure is hot,” Sam said, and then started again, “Oh! I almost forgot. Your first paycheck came this morning.”

     He shuffled through some envelopes behind his desk, all identical except for two with her and her brother’s names on them.

     “Could you please give Jon this if you see him downtown,” Sam asked, nervous, “He can show you the bank to cash it at.” 

     “Sure, Sam,” Sansa smiled and took the envelope, she had forgotten that money was involved in her staying there, “Thanks!”

…

     As Sansa descended the hilly terrain of her new neighborhood, pocketbook clasped firmly in the crook of her arm as she used all of her balance not to fall on the sloping sidewalk, she wondered at the improbability of the houses that shrank in size the closer she came to town. It seemed an odd place to settle, even coming as she did from the somewhat mountainous regions of her own home state. At least there the houses were spread out, it was uncommon to see one’s neighbors, even in the depths of winter when the trees were bare. Sansa looked at a small pink house with a patio that, despite its miniature size, boasted a lush garden of deep green leaves and large magenta flowers. It seemed jammed into the side of the hill, with its rear windows looking up the grassy incline of their neighbor’s own embankment above. She tried to imagine how someone decided to build a house in that exact spot, where a fall from the patio could mean at least some serious injuries from a tumble full of brush and less attractive plants. 

     Halfway down, Sansa pulled over into the shaded concave of a yard’s exterior gate and pulled out the small bottle of sunscreen she had brought with her, smearing more on her arms and neck. It was almost empty, and still her fair skin was burning. She sighed and thought of the straw hat in her bedroom at home that she did not pack, mostly because it would have damaged the hat but also because Sansa had not fully comprehended the California sunshine. As she rubbed the sunscreen onto the back of her neck, she watched the heat rise from the road’s pavement in the same aggressive way as on the airport tarmac. She removed her cotton cardigan and slathered on more sunscreen before hobbling down to flatter terrain.

     Sansa thanked her good luck when she found that memory had served her, and the main street for shopping was indeed just at the base of her hillside neighborhood. She did not know how much her first paycheck would give her, but it burned inside of her pocketbook as she stared into the shop windows. Or was that the metal enclosure that kept the bag shut? Sansa quickly removed it from under her arm and saw a small red burn on her side and underarm where she had been holding it. She gasped, more with surprise than pain, and then sighed. Jon was right. Her feet already had blisters, and she was sweating through her sleeveless cotton top. A teal bikini with thin white stripes perched tantalizingly on a mannequin in the display of a closed shop beside her, and Sansa thought of her worn out, almost translucent in some places, bathing suit that she had worn to camp for the past three seasons. It would not have fit her, save for the size allowance made by the extreme stretching of the old fabric. She sighed at the thought of a new bathing costume. What worked in New England summers did not seem to do for California summers. 

     It was barely nine o’clock when Sansa had finished at the Alpha Beta grocery store. She had some spare cash left over from graduation gifts, which she thought would be sufficient for her short list of oranges, apples, bread, and peanut butter. At the checkout line, the cashier had surprised her. 

     “Are you staying at Baelish’s?” he said, recognition in his dark eyes.

   “Yes…?” Sansa replied, unsure of whether or not to lie. The cashier was about her age, with dark hair and rounded features that implied solidity rather than corpulence, and was pleasant enough but still a stranger. 

     “Oh, sorry,” he raised a conciliatory hand, “Jon just came in and said you might come by, I’m Podrick. Well, just Rick.”

     Sansa smiled and gently shook his hand over the conveyor belt. 

     “Anyway, your food’s covered on Mr. Baelish’s account,” Rick continued, “It’ll be delivered to the house before noon.”

     “Really?” Sansa had never thought of such a luxury, but was more happy about not having to carry produce back up to the house in the heightening heat, “That’s great! Thank you…”

     “Rick,” he smiled. 

     “Rick,” she confirmed with a nod. The air conditioning in the store had caused Sansa to hang her cardigan around her shoulders, which she pulled further around her neck, averted her eyes and said goodbye before quickly exiting. She tried not to imagine Rick’s eyes on the back of her head, or anywhere else. 

     Since her arrival, it had been easy to keep her mind occupied and off of Geoffrey. She had sent out one letter to Margyery, one to Arya, and one to her mother and father. Surprisingly, or perhaps not, Sansa had not felt homesick at all. The strangeness of her environment had been endlessly distracting, and she repeated the best story so far about California in her letters to Margyery and Arya. The day before yesterday, a pelican landed on the deck railing and would not leave, despite her repeated attempts to shoo it away. It regarded Sansa with a pale blue eye, completely indifferent to her existence. Jon came to the rescue with a rake, and haltingly prodded the stubborn bird with the end of its handle. More out of annoyance than fear, the pelican eventually took off. 

     “Stupid things are always shitting all over the place,” Jon said, watching as the bird drooped down in its flight. Sam had emerged from his box to watch, and was looking up with a gleeful smile when the pelican came closer, and closer, until he noticed that it was soaring straight for him. The smile disappeared into a mask of terror as he ran for cover, and after the pelican seemed to slap the back of his head with its webbed feet he fell forward on a mound of soil that Jon had been spreading, sending his uniform cap flying. Sansa had already been chuckling at the flat, honking noises the avian menace had been making as Jon confronted it, but now she was gasping for air beside her brother as they both laughed at poor Sam’s misfortune. The victim stood and brushed himself off, and Sansa was relieved to see that he was unharmed and also grinning. Now, jarred back into the thought of Geoffrey by the male attention, no matter how polite and unintrusive, Sansa realized sadly that her former boyfriend probably would have just shot the poor pelican with his hunting rifle. 

     “Well, he won’t be shooting _anything_ ever again,” she thought, both satisfied and downcast.

     The other shops, including that with the bikini, were closed for at least another half an hour. Sansa walked along, determined to shake her mind of Geoffrey, and looked up to where the oddly placed palm trees peeked over the tops of the buildings. Even with her sunglasses the sun was almost blinding, and Sansa lowered her gaze to blink away the spots that started to form in her eyes. They cleared somewhat, and she saw an open shop door that she entered without hesitation. As her eyes adjusted Sansa saw that she had stepped into a secondhand clothing store. There was no air conditioning in this store, but a few fans were placed around the merchandise, circulating the not unpleasant smell that usually accompanied most shops of that kind. 

     “Good morning,” said a voice, and Sansa turned to face it. A girl sat behind the counter, untidy but sun-streaked blonde hair falling down past her shoulders, wearing a crocheted dress that covered her thin frame. Sansa smiled and replied, feeling immediately overdressed. She looked around at the racks of clothes; despite her family’s status in their small community, the Starks were no strangers to thrift stores, either for donating or buying. Sansa’s brothers lived in hand-me-downs besides the polished formal wear that would be purchased for events from time to time, and though she had been the first daughter and lucky to receive new dresses, Arya preferred her brothers’ dungarees and jersey knits. Much of Sansa’s childhood clothing had been given to their local charity shop, and Mrs. Stark was not above buying her secondhand wear.

     “You all grow like weeds,” her mother had often said, “And there’s no way we’re paying for a new wardrobe every season.”

     “No,” Sansa always thought but would never, ever say, “You need that money for your luncheon outfits and evening wear.”

     Despite the thrift that sometimes earned her family some teasing on the playground or in school, Sansa did not quite mind. Mrs. Stark was skilled at finding the least worn and most presentable casual clothing, and Sansa had learned from her mother how to recognize quality. The garments that were too outdated could easily be altered, and as she looked around, Sansa missed the sewing machine that she had been given for her birthday a few years earlier. She dove into the shelves, sifting through the clothes from earlier decades that were even more stiff and constrictive than hers. The reduced prices were even better than those at home. There were even a few pieces that were just strange enough to be worthy of Aunt Lysa, but Sansa doubted that she would accept anything from such a place. Mrs. Stark had often criticized her sister’s spending as a bad example. Half an hour later, Sansa arrived at the counter with a few cotton house dresses that she could wear with just an under-slip, a pair of sandals with a slight heel, a sun hat with a barely noticeable fray on the brim, pale pink shorts, and a beaded cocktail dress that looked like something she had seen her mother wear in a photograph when Mrs. Stark was her age. Strangely, the color had reminded Sansa of the pelican’s eye.

      “This is _gorgeous_ ,” the girl at the counter gasped. She ran her fingers over the glittering beads before carefully folding and placing it in a brown paper bag. The girl moved with a fluidity reminiscent of someone swimming but was nonetheless intently focused on her work, and with her slim frame Sansa wondered if she was a ballet dancer, or one of those synchronized swimmers. She looked down past the counter and was surprised to see a baby propped up on a pile of shirts, sleeping peacefully beneath the wind of a small fan. Sansa caught the girl watching her look at the baby, and they exchanged smiles.

     “I have a couple of younger brothers, too,” Sansa offered, “All that unpaid babysitting work.”

     The girl looked at her for a moment as though confused, then let out a nervous giggle before giving Sansa her total. She paid and thanked the girl, left with her bag, and then broke out into a grin. _Ten dollars_ for all that? Sansa was thrilled, she would be back. 

     The other shops had opened, but with her clothing purchase and a new bottle of sunscreen from the pharmacy, Sansa was out of cash. The pharmacist had helped her to find a lotion with the highest blocking power which she accepted despite the price, higher than her entire clothing purchase, but she refused to buy the zinc oxide he suggested. Her father used that whenever the Starks went to the beach; it was difficult to make Dr. Stark look absurd, but when he was wearing that stuff it was far too easy to laugh at the imposing man, and Sansa cited her new hat as a better alternative. She also bought some ointment for her purse burn, and a much-needed ginger ale with her last nickel. 

     Sansa was looking for the bank Sam had mentioned when she heard a honk from the street. She turned to see Jon’s pickup parking along the pavement, its bed full of bags of dirt, and her brother emerged shortly after. 

      “Having fun?” he asked, squinting in the sunlight at her shopping bags.

     “Oh yeah,” she replied, opening her purse, “Sam told me to give you this.”

     “Ah,” Jon took the envelope, “Payday.” 

     After a trip to the bank, Jon depositing his check and Sansa taking hers out in cash, they drove back to the house. Sansa had been worried to sit on the seats, then realized how damp and dusty her skirt was from the thrift store and climbed in without reservation. She would have to wash her entire outfit when they returned, as it was. When they were halfway home, Sansa exclaimed in frustration.

     “Problem?” Jon asked, accustomed to his sibling’s outbursts.

     “No,” Sansa tried not to pout, “There was just a swimsuit down there I forgot to go back for.” 

     “But you already have one…?” Jon asked, eyes on the road. Boys.

     “I’ll get it later,” Sansa said, then considered, “If they still have my size.”

     “Oh, there’s a beach party tonight,” Jon changed the subject, “Guy at the grocery store told me.”

     “Rick?” asked Sansa, after a moment. 

     “Yeah,” Jon ventured a look, “You went to Alpha Beta?”

     “Yeah,” she responded as they pulled through their open gate.

     Parked in the driveway was the town car that had taken Aunt Lysa to the airport, an assortment of magenta luggage sitting by its open trunk. Jon paused by Sam’s post, the guard walked up to their door, and said, “Get yourselves ready.”

     “Hello!” came a voice from the deck, and all three looked up. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pelican, White Walker. Same thing.


End file.
